


Canvas

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [2]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Romance, Trust Issues, implied one-sided love, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love spins a strange web. Maybe it's the stars, playing little games. Maybe it's some absurd urging of the heart. Whatever it is, it's complicated. Especially when you're a six-foot mutant turtle ninja and she's...not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowflake

October 15th, two minutes after the church bell announced the midnight hour, was the first time he saw her.

She was a lone figure, visible by the light catching pale strands of hair as she moved down the street. A woman alone at a late (or early, depending on how you look at it) hour, exiting a 24-hour café with a book tucked carefully beneath her arm. She walked two blocks, stopped at the corner, and hailed a taxi. He remembers a brief glimpse at her face in the dim surrounding lights, and a better view when the cab pulled up beside her and its interior light cast bright illumination. He remembers a glimpse of her eyes, and he remembers her smile.

And he wanted to see it again.

Even now, he doesn’t know how or why he remembers these exact details. He lacks the photographic memory of his younger brother, and in the following weeks was indoctrinated with more important and relevant matters. Yet these details remained always at the back of his mind: a repetitive, persistent urging to follow irrational compulsions and return, just to see the smile of a strange human. It was ridiculous and absurd.

For sixteen days, he resisted, devoted himself to cleansing meditations in hopes it would all pass. That it would be nothing more than an idle fancy.

***

October 31st, one hour before midnight, finds him on patrol. He is alone only in lacking company; his brothers are also out tonight, determined to be quick and at the ready should the supposed “bewitching hour” draw out unsavory characters. In prior years, they have remained hidden, watching with the unspoken desire to step in and join the festivities, but were confined to the underground. In that time, the difference between innocent fun and deviant behavior had not been apparent to their young eyes. They were younger then; now they know what this city has to offer, and they are ready.

The church rings its bell, announcing the midnight hour has arrived. Five minutes later, he sees her.

Later, when he is tucked below ground in his bedroom, he wonders why she felt safe walking dark streets, alone, at such an hour. Her stride was calm and confident, while others shuffled along or moved carelessly with the enthusiasm of the holiday evening. Her head lifted high, while those around her walked with heads bowed and eyes downward and paying no attention to their surroundings. She did not stop to meet anyone along the way, and no one in particular seemed to be looking at her. In a crowd of overly-excited citizens, some clearly drunk and behaving improperly, she moved alone yet again and escaped unscathed. No one detached from their group to pursue her, and she never looked over her shoulder to check for unwanted company.

He watched her walk north, then disappear around a corner. He almost followed. He didn’t.

***

November brings snow to New York, blanketing the city in cold and white. His command for continued patrols does not make him the popular brother. Raphael labels him a work-a-holic, and Michelangelo accuses him of trying to freeze them all to death. His only response is a well-practiced glare.

As part of a small compromise, he agrees to an earlier patrol. It is for the simple sake of self-preservation: even with the protection of heavy layers—human clothes “borrowed” from a local secondhand store—they are still cold-blooded and won’t last long as the temperatures drop. And the winter nights here are very, very cold.

Tonight, he chooses a different perch for observation: the ledge of a rather modest penthouse—at least by comparable standards. Ordinarily, he would confine himself to rooftops for the sake of secrecy and stealth. But the windows are dark, giving no indication of being occupied, and the ledge provides a vantage point in looking over the street. An overhang, protruding from the roof above, gives protection from falling snow and chilled winds. He quickly determines this is an excellent perch, and decides to keep it for future patrols.

Relaxation settles into his limbs, the tension of constantly being on-guard slipping away as the moments pass in silence. And then, from his left, a light flicks on and illuminates the interior room. In the next second, before he can move, the window opens. His mind fires the command to disappear, even vacate the ledge and relocate to the roof, but the human clothes are heavy, bulky, and not made for stealthy escapes. The best he can do is slip around the corner. Then, for reasons he will eventually question, he dares another glance at the window. He waits barely a second, and then _she_ is there.

A moment, maybe two—maybe an hour—pass in suspension. Logically, he knows Time has not actually stopped; he can still feel the stone ledge beneath his feet and the wind on his back, and so it must indeed still be moving onward. Yet he wonders if Time might have stopped, because he is here and she is there, barely five feet away, and she has not noticed him and thus he can look at her without distance. He can examine her face, silently taking in the smooth lines of her jaw and cheeks, the pale tone of her skin, and the dark blue eyes staring out, examining the ledge carefully. _Curiously_ , he notes, and he realizes she must have seen his shadow.

An adventurous gust of wind suddenly brushes his face, bringing an abrupt realization: his scarf is gone, and he watches in mute horror as it flutters across the ledge and is caught in her grasp.

He spends the night in a decidedly sour mood, fortunately acknowledged by his brothers with silence as they return home. Locked away in his room, he curses every asinine, poorly-executed decision made tonight. And then he sits and thinks about her, because out of all the other idiotic things he did, looking at her was not one of them. Now, in place of shadowy shapes and hidden details stolen from a distance, he has the full image of her face to keep in memory.

He doesn’t go back for several weeks, not until the snow settles for a bit. There will be another bout soon, but for now he has a short window of time, and he takes it.

There is no explanation, no deeper understanding or meaning to answer why he returns. He only knows he wants to go back and see her. She is a flame, and he has become the moth.

She is sitting in front of a large artist’s canvas, her back facing the window. Platinum-blonde hair is drawn up and her sweater falls loose from the shoulders, baring a long neck and a modest glimpse of her back. She is pale and smooth, not unlike the paint strokes she runs across the canvas. No brushes or other instruments are present; instead, paint coats her fingertips, and they are the tools with which she creates an image.

He experiences a brief, illogical, but burning impulse to be the canvas; to have her hands touch him and make something beautiful of him. He touches the glass, leaning forward until his reflection is gone and replaced by her image. Were he closer, were there no barriers left between them, he would be touching the back of her neck. But he is not, because there is much more between them than just a cold pane of glass.

***

December comes quickly, and with it the city comes alive in the wake of holiday cheer. He is familiar with the human celebration of Christmas—years spent underground listening to the excited shouts of children darting across the streets and exchanges of well-wishes have provided enough knowledge in that vein—though he has never participated. Curious, he spends some time watching her, this time from afar, to see if she partakes in this holiday. And, not for the first time and definitely not the last, he questions himself. He doubts himself. He knows he shouldn’t be here and he shouldn’t keep coming back.

But here he is, and there she is. Pale skin and pale hair catch snowflakes as they begin a lazy descent from the sky. She lifts her head, deep blue depths suddenly alight as she watches the snow. She sees something beautiful, something wondrous about an ordinary event. He can see it in the gentle curve of her smile, and he wishes he were the snow. He could make her smile. He could catch himself on her skin and lose himself in her hair. He could live and die with her.

Sometime later, he is bent carefully over a large piece of glass. Broken by some unknown accident and tossed out with the garbage, it finds new purpose under his careful dedication. Stroke by stroke, with his swords as tools, his mind’s eye carves out delicate shapes and details from damaged remnants. It lacks the finer quality of which Donatello would be capable, but nevertheless is something made by his own hands. Like the swords he carries on his back, this little trinket is his craftsmanship, and it is enough to give him pride.

He slips back to the ledge, to her window, under cover of darkness and with a flimsy excuse accepted by distracted siblings. She is here; he sees her shadow as she moves in a different room. One window has been left open tonight. It isn’t much of a space to work with, but it’s enough.

There is no time to linger and examine her expression if and when she discovers a piece of glass sculpted into a snowflake, as though a stray separated from its fellows and settled upon her window sill. He wishes there was, but Time is not his to bargain with tonight. All he can do is hope she’ll find some beauty in its crude image, a subtle allusion to his ever-present yearning that she would find some beauty in him.

He waits three long days to return, imprisoned by a raging storm and tortured by this irrational, burning need to know. Even if the answer is rejection for the obscure gesture of courtship, it would be better to know than wait and wonder.

Finally, the snow settles, a blinding flurry calmed to lightly descending flakes, and he slips away once again. His absence is once again assumed to be over-dedication to a self-appointed task. He doesn’t correct them.

Her windows are dark, and for a moment he feels a stinging but anticipated sense of disappointment. And then, his eyes catch a flicker of dark red. Immediately, hardly daring to believe it and yet unwilling to lose the fraying thread of hope, he looks again. There, tucked in the far corner of her window, is the scarf lost the first night he ventured to this place. And there is a note attached:

_Thought you’d want this back. If you’re interested in having a real conversation, come by tomorrow. Ten o’clock._

He releases a low, shuddering breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, clutching the note close. It isn’t a definite response, and he doesn’t let himself hope beyond an invitation to talk with her. But it’s an open door to what he thought would be closed to him forever. And it’s enough to keep the thread of hope together one more night.

***

As per Fate and its twisted sense of humor, the ten o’clock evening hour doesn’t come soon enough. He spends the morning exercising and sharpening swords when they don’t need to be sharpened. By noon, he’s watched a television marathon for a show he neither understands nor gives a damn about. Two hours later, he’s watched part of another marathon and finally exiles himself to meditation before his brain is damaged further. He meditates for a long, blissfully quiet stretch, though he cannot completely clear his mind. His thoughts are racing unchecked, and constantly return to her.

By nine o’clock, his patience—previously thought endless—has run out. He leaves the lair, this time without excuses or explanations, and ventures out into the exposed air. It is an unseasonably pleasant night, and he wonders if this is Fate’s way of apologizing for the long wait.

Quietly, with all the prowess and skill of his training, he scales the roof and descends to her ledge. He still has forty minutes before the hour, but curiosity nevertheless prompts an examination of her window. Perhaps she is—

—sitting on the ledge, waiting for him.

“You’re early.”

He takes a minute to collect himself, analyzing the circumstances carefully. She sits with her back facing him, and she hasn’t moved yet. So long as he remains hidden, there is little to fear. His voice sounds no different than any human and would give her no suspicion that he would be anything else.

He wishes it was different; he wants to see her eyes again. But now is not the time to be greedy with desires.

“So are you.” He returns, pleased his voice doesn’t break or waver. There is nothing to fear right now. He is nothing but an ordinary voice in the shadows, and the darkness keeps him safe.

There is a hint of amusement in her voice as she answers, “I was bored. What’s your excuse?”

A moment passes while he considers an appropriate answer. He could play her game and respond in kind, but coy and indifferent isn’t his way. Honesty, sometimes to a fault, is more his style…but there is always a risk involved, and even more so now. The truthful answer could be taken the wrong way, or worse yet come out the wrong way. He doesn’t know how to do this properly, according to some defined human rules…but neither does he have an immediate frame of reference to use. He’ll just have to—as Mikey is so fond of saying—“wing it”.

“I was impatient.” He finally says, praying the words don’t sound rehearsed or (God forbid) totally creepy. “I…really wanted to see you.”

“Are you always so impatient to see strange girls?”

“You’re not strange.” He quickly protests, and he cringes to hear how rushed the words come out. But she surprises him, laughing softly at his response.

“Actually, I am. Quite a bit, in fact…but that’s a different matter.” She shifts slightly and pulls her legs up to the sill, stretching out across the ledge. “Let me rephrase: you know nothing about me and yet you rush to meet me. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I know you’re a painter.” He corrects, too quickly, “A painter who uses her hands, not brushes and tools. I know you love the snow. And I know you’re—”

His words halt as his mind catches up and considers just how much he sounds like a first-class stalker. Truly, open honesty is not serving him well tonight, if at all. There is a notable flush of heat creeping along his neck and face, so much so that he briefly considers plunging headfirst into a snow bank.

“Go on,” she says, softer than before, though a smile is heard as she adds, “If you’re going to start down this path, you might as well finish.”

His heart falters in its normal rhythm for a moment, and he loses his train of thought for a longer moment. Then, releasing a slow measured breath, he continues, “You’re right…I don’t know everything about you. But I know some things. Little things. And what I do know makes me want to know it all.”

Silence follows, and he can only brace himself for the rejection he’s been expecting since this all started. But then he hears a low hum, a gentle and contemplative sound. It doesn’t sound like a dismissive gesture…and it almost sounds like she’s smiling.

“Everything, hmm?” she echoes thoughtfully, “It’s a bit of a tall order for one night.”

He releases another breath, one he hadn’t been aware of holding. “Yes, it is.”

“So,” she continues, and now he is certain of her smile, “I guess you’ll just have to keep coming back, won’t you?”

A shudder runs unchecked through him, brought on by overwhelming warmth which spreads like wildfire. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, but he would happily remain like this for days. For a moment, he wonders if he’s floating, flying even, but a slight shift reminds him of the cold wind and concrete ledge. He’s not flying; he’s still perched on a building edge. And if he’s not careful, he’ll earn a one-way ticket to the ground, fifteen stories below.

“Guess I will…” he finally answers. His voice is soft. He doesn’t trust himself to speak loud and betray a quiver of sheer delight.

“Though it seems we would part tonight on unfair terms.” She adds, tone almost diplomatic, but with audible hints of a coy expression, “For you to know so much about me, and I know nothing of you. Except your preference for shadows and ledges, and the undeniable charm of your honest tongue.”

He smiles. “So what can I offer to even the score?”

She shifts again, shrugging idly, “I’ll settle for your name.”

Another exhale, almost like a sigh, precedes his answer. “Leonardo.”

She pauses briefly, as though pondering his name. “The Renaissance artist?”

He answers with an agreeing hum, and then she releases a low, almost inspired breath. “Your parents had fine taste, Leonardo.”

It is only with willpower that he does not quake at the sound of her voice speaking his name. Before he can find a proper response, she seems to know the next question on his mind. “Celine,” no prompt needed, no persuasion, only calm words and her gentle tone, “Celine West.”

A moment passes, and then she laughs quietly, “And now you know one more thing about me than I do you. You’d better be ready to repay in full.”

“Count on it.” He murmurs. It is a promise he intends to keep.

She is smiling. He can’t see it, but he can hear it in her voice. “Till tomorrow, Leonardo.”

“Till tomorrow.” He echoes, heart beating too hard and too fast to be healthy. Frankly, he could care less. He cares even less when he returns to questioning stares and, in Raphael’s case, a demand for his whereabouts. For the first time, he doesn’t have an answer, but he doesn’t need one. Being the eldest has its advantages. One of them is the gift of a silent glare and stubborn silence. It served him well before, and it serves him well now.

He locks himself away in the meditation room, drawing his emotions back under control. It won’t last; he can’t control his heart around her—this much was determined tonight—but for now, when he is in the company of his brothers, he must maintain composure.

But he’ll let himself keep smiling for a little longer.


	2. Emerald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo learns the rules of the game can always be changed, without notice. But sometimes it's for the better.

“So you’re a craftsman.”

“In a way,” he answers after a thoughtful moment, “I built my swords. But it’s not what you would call a trade. I only build when necessary.”

“Or when trying to charm your way onto window ledges.” She adds coyly, holding out the glass snowflake to emphasize the point. Two nights earlier, she showed him the fate of his gift: transformation from simple trinket to a pendant now fastened to a silver chain. It has not left her neck since.

He smiles, “It was a one-time thing.”

“And yet clearly successful, else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She shifts on the ledge to ensure the window frame does not keep digging into her back. “Why do you need to build swords? Do you sell them?”

“No,” he pauses briefly, “It’s part of my training. My…ninja training.” He adds, before she has to ask. He feels, yet again, like a blushing schoolboy admitting to a strange hobby in hopes it won’t earn him swift rejection.

“A ninja in New York.” She muses aloud, entwining the thin chain between three fingers; the glass catches light rather beautifully, and he admires it for a moment before returning attention to her next words. “Just when I thought this city was becoming dull.” He smiles at her words, and then she continues, “But I suppose this does account for your little quirks, doesn’t it?”

He can’t quite contain a small chuckle. “I have a few quirks, Celine.” He only just started using her name, after a rather pointed comment regarding his use of “Miss West”. It is a beautiful name and he already knows he’ll never tire of using it. “Which one are you referring to?”

Another laugh follows; she reaches up to brush her hair over one shoulder, leaving the back of a slender neck exposed, and he is reminded of the night he first saw her paint, her neck bare, and the burning urge to touch her.

The position she has assumed for their nightly conversations, seated upon the window ledge with her back always facing him, renews the urge time and time again. But he cannot even dare; the slightest brush of his skin to hers would betray the secrets she is graciously allowing him to keep. And this—whatever _this_ is between them—is too pleasant to ruin.

“Your insistence on being a faceless voice in the dark is at the top of the list.” She replies smoothly. “Are there others you’d care to share?”

“I’m afraid I fall short of recognizing my own faults.” He admits. “But according to my brothers…no sense of humor, control issues, and an obsession with work and a refusal to engage in fun.”

Celine laughs, and his heart palpitates with the sound. “Quite an unfortunate resume.” She comments, still with a smile in her voice. “Would it help if I supply a few compliments to balance the criticism?”

It isn’t as though he needs an ego boost—which is precisely what she’s offering, make no mistake. He is usually confident in himself and his abilities, occasionally to a fault, and enough so that constant criticism from the younger siblings has no damaging effects.

But if she has something good to say about him, something beautiful…

His silence apparently answers for him. He waits only another short minute before she continues, “I can’t speak for your control issues or obsession with work,” she says, “but I can say your sense of humor appears to be perfectly fine. Perhaps your brothers prefer a joke every two minutes, but I find your dry wit and selective instances of amusement rather refreshing.”

She reaches up, and then he can see her necklace entwined within two fingers. “More importantly,” she speaks softer this time, “it appears you find a passion and pour your soul into it. You created your swords for purposes of your craft. You blend within shadows to excel at your craft. You trained your body and your spirit to become one with your craft. And by way of your craft, you inspire beauty from something mundane and broken.”

She holds his gift to illustrate her words, and yet there is something about her tone which makes him wonder if she is truly talking about the pendant, or about its wearer.

***

“What do you call it again?”

“The katana,” he answers, eyes ever watchful as she slowly weighs one of his swords in her hands. Getting it to her had been a bit tricky; unwilling to risk her turning around and taking the offering from him properly, he’d been forced to carefully inch along the ledge, extending it over her shoulder so she could take hold of it. Even more difficult than actually getting the sword into her hands had been the task of keeping his heart rate under control, when they were this close. He’d been less than a foot from her by the time she was able to take his prized weapon. Her warmth had radiated over him, like he was sitting beside an open hearth. With their closeness had followed an extremely improper desire to wrap himself around her and absorb her heat. He’d been shaking and, much to his embarrassment, sweating by the time he was able to resume distance between them.

But it was well worth it, because the sight of her examining his sword with delicate hands cradling and fingers tracing the blade inspires very new feelings. Very pleasant feelings that almost leave him as warm as had being close to her; he lets himself imagine her eyes on the weapon, an artist’s mind devouring every last detail in its construction. He would like to see her face. But, once again, he pushes the desire away. His imagination will have to be enough right now.

“ _Katana_ ,” she murmurs, almost reverently, “And you built this yourself?”

He chuckles, quietly, “Well, the one you’re holding is the final product. There were several tries before it. Most of them were unfortunate mishaps.”

“Practice makes perfect, as they say,” Celine replies; one finger drags the entire length of the blade, along the broad side, and he feels himself tense involuntarily. He has to bite back the urge to tell her to stop, to be more careful lest she cut herself, because if she does, he’ll be obliged to forgo secrecy and dash to her aid. But, to his immense relief, she has a steadier hand than he originally thought. No injury appears when she’s finished, and she holds it in her hands again with a thoughtful sound.

“It’s beautiful, Leonardo.” She declares. “Exquisite, actually. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

When he returns home that night, he stays awake for a little while. He lays the sword across his lap, staring in silence at the blade. Then he closes his eyes and rests his fingers upon the metal. It is very likely just his imagination, but he lets himself believe he can still feel the warm imprint of her fingertips.

***

On Christmas day, the snow falls lighter than the weather forecast predicated. He sits in a new position: on the window, feet nearly grazing her carpet, the warmth of her home washing over him quite pleasantly. She sits nearby on the couch, back facing him once again. She has a plate in hand for herself, and another sits across his lap. He eats with relish, savoring the novel tastes of ham and mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables. Far be it for him to turn away from the familiar delight of pizza, but the hot greasy taste of cheese and pepperoni can’t quite compare to this.

Later, she introduces him to something called pecan pie. They watch a movie, “Miracle on 34th Street,” interrupted every so often by his questions about Santa Claus and why so few seem to believe in him. At some point, they both lose interest in the movie and delve into an impassioned discussion about human cynicism and the world’s refusal to accept anything mystical or out of the norm. He finds her a fierce yet multi-layered debate partner, a keen mind housing a gentle heart saddened by the hardened souls around her. It is an intriguing pool of multiple attributes he’d love to dive into over and over again.

Their conversation continues well into the early morning hours. Eventually, she falls asleep on the sofa. He stays until dawn breaks.

***

“Why do you only paint with your fingers?” the question isn’t new; it’s been lingering at the back of his mind for a while now, but apparently tonight is the night it will be asked. “Don’t most people use tools? Like brushes?”

“You ask that as thought I qualify as _most people_.” Celine answers, and he wonders if there isn’t a little smirk at the end of her comment.

“My question remains.” He replies, tucking a smile away. No, she isn’t like most people. If anything, she exists on a completely different plane of humanity with her wry humor, compassionate soul, and a heart that seems to see the good in everything, no matter how bleak or despairing others may consider it. She is a far cry from the world with which he’s become familiar, and he finds himself drawn closer for that very reason. It is among the many reasons—some of them known, others not yet acknowledged—he returns night after night.

“Because I want to.” She answers as though it’s the only obvious response. “There’s something satisfying and surreal about making the canvas your own. The resulting art becomes _your_ creation—your skin brought it to life.”

He shifts slightly on the sill, legs once more hanging into the warm interior. It’s become their newest position in relation to each other: her seated inside the penthouse, he upon the window sill. Halfway into her world, halfway still within his, and he has grown terribly fond of the warm comfort which exists in this place. It has almost become unbearable to return down below, to the dark and cold, but only fuels his desire to come back.

She dribbles blue paint on three fingers, then presses them to the canvas. Lines appear on white, breaking the empty space with a smooth, fluid motion. By morning, there will be a new creation depicted across the canvas.

“Your buyers must appreciate it.” He says, watching her intently. Her kitchen table is littered with notes on various pieces of paper, all with detailed information regarding commissions and associated prices. Some days earlier, she gave a thorough explanation of her business. He’s sure Donatello would have probably had a better understanding of the more technical bits of her explanation, but he got the general idea nevertheless. “After all, the requests keep coming.”

A low sound, humorless and dry, precedes her answer, “The requests keep coming, Leonardo, because the public has an unhealthy fascination with their most colorful citizens. When they can’t get direct access to such a person, they settle for the next best thing.”

He considers her briefly, “And you are the next best thing?”

“I’m the daughter of the Butcher,” she answers, the humor gone from her voice, “The one who had to testify against him in court, on national television, nonetheless. I’m almost more a celebrity in this city than he is.”

***

In the days past since first mentioning it, she’s told him more about her father. She tells him about the good years when her mother was alive and her father was happy. She tells him about her mother encouraging a love of art, though not the love of painting with hands because it made a mess. She smiles when she tells him how her father would be her partner-in-crime, helping her clean up before her mother could see the smear of paint on the floor and sometimes the walls. She tells him how her father swore she’d be famous one day.

She says little more about her father as “the Butcher”. He could look it up, if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t. He only wants to know what she’ll tell him. She wants him to know about her father as a kind and happy man. He is fine with that. Sometimes that is the best way to remember people.

He tells her things too. He tells her about the early years in the laboratory, the rescue and retreat to the sewers. He tells her how they grew under Sensei’s care and teaching, how they learned the ninja’s ways while wondering about the way of the human world. He tells her about April, and about each of his brothers.

And then, at some point, he realizes he has said too much. He realizes the constant references to a “human world” and earlier mentions of living in a laboratory will mark him as anything but human, normal, or ordinary. He has said too much, and is quickly destroying what illusion he’s tried to maintain up to this point.

He also realizes she has not questioned him. She has not once pointed out the painfully obvious cracks in his story, the way he has practically revealed his true face, or even demanded to see his true face. She has only listened to him. Nothing more.

The wondering nearly drives him mad, but he says nothing. If she is still willing to play this game, to pretend they are equals when they are anything but, he won’t ruin it. Not yet.

This tentative peace lasts for another few weeks. And then she changes the game.

“Why don’t you trust me?”

The question comes unexpectedly, without any warning, on a pleasantly cool spring evening. He sits on her window ledge, watching as she brings a beautiful evening skyline to life. Her hands are covered in paint, and he had been entertaining his unfortunate but persistent fantasy about being that very lucky canvas when her question jerks him rather forcefully back to reality.

“I…” he struggles for a proper answer, but she doesn’t give him time.

“You don’t trust me, Leonardo,” she can never know what it does to him when his name leaves her lips, “and I don’t know why.”

“I do trust you.” He finally works up the necessary protest. He _does_ trust her. He does. He’s trusted her with his childhood, with his presence, with his secrets, and has he not proven she can trust him in return? He has not and would never betray a single word of all she has told him. He tells her as much, voice low and earnest. She has to believe him.

She runs a finger slowly down the canvas, leaving a delicate smear of purple behind. “You don’t trust me with your face.”

He tries for a response and fails. His voice is lost to the frantic racing of his mind. To trust her with his face…Some part of his mind, less controlled by rational thought and common sense, is filled with gleeful excitement. Overflowing with it, actually. It is the part of his brain connected most with his heart, and it only knows pure delight at the thought of her wanting to see his face. No more games of shadows and evenings spent as a faceless visitor. She’ll see him and know him and—

There. Finally, the abrupt burst of logic he desperately needs. She, a beautiful and perfect example of humanity, will see him, never fully human but not quite an animal; just a living, breathing creature without a proper name. He’s just a _thing_. Not a person, not an animal. _Just a thing_.

It terrifies him. She could run. She could scream. She could look at him with horror and disgust and shatter his heart in the process. One gasp, one word, one betraying flicker of the eyes, and it would be ruined.

Or—and God help him, this is even more terrifying a thought—she could smile at him. She could be happy the game is over and tell him they can act normally. She could take his hand and let him sit beside her and talk and just be together.

He realizes belatedly that he is shaking. Swallowing carefully, he slowly forces a very dry mouth to speak, “I want to trust you—”

The next words don’t come out quick enough, or maybe she doesn’t want to hear it. “This isn’t about wanting or not wanting, Leonardo,” she says quietly, but firmly, “You need to make a choice. Choose to trust me, or don’t.”

He doesn’t have an answer, and she sighs before continuing with the painting. There is something in the sound which very much feels like disappointment, and it hurts him to hear it.

He doesn’t go home tonight. Instead, he tucks himself into a corner of the roof. He doesn’t sleep. He sits on the cold concrete and thinks.

If he knew for certain she would reject him, he would probably just get it over with. It would be the cold blow of reality he needs, and he could go back to being the stoic one, without the burning need to be beside her and talk with her and learn more about her. Better yet, if she rejected him, he could just forget about her. Her fear and disgust would be the catalyst to remind him of what he is and how he can never belong to her or her world.

But he _doesn’t_ know. He isn’t completely certain of her rejection, and it scares him. Terrifies him. If she wasn’t horrified by him, if she accepted him…

And he wishes she would. He wants to touch her face and see her eyes and see her smile, not just hear it in her voice. He wants to run fingers through her hair and smile at, with, for her. He wants to sit with her and watch movies and read books and pretend for a few blissful moments that he is normal.

By the time daylight ends and evening falls, he is a trembling fit of anxious nerves, a world apart from the sternly-composed leader and warrior. It takes sheer willpower and an act of God to descend from the roof to her window with a modicum of grace. She is sitting before her finished canvas, staring at it. He waits a minute before realizing she hasn’t heard him yet.

“Celine,” his voice is low, almost a broken rasp, and he barely recognizes it as his own. Taking an unsteady step forward, he finally dares to say it. “Turn around.”

She doesn’t, not for a moment. But when finally she’s turned on her seat and facing him, he loses breath at the sight. Pale skin, pale curls framing delicate features, big blue eyes—like the twilight sky—and soft pink lips. She looks like a fine porcelain doll, too beautiful and too fragile to touch. But he wants to. Badly.

The apartment is well-lit tonight. There are no shadows to hide him, only warm light and golden hues to reveal every inch of his form. And all the while she stares. Says nothing, but stares.

And then, so softly he barely hears it, she whispers, “Take it off. All of it. Let me see you.”

His first reaction is surprise—See him? All of him? Hasn’t she seen all she wants to see?—followed by a sudden and unexpected flush of embarrassed heat. He blames the human elements of his mutated DNA. Surely normal animals who already move about their business unclothed would never feel like this!

He almost refuses, but then reminds himself that he started this game and he better finish it. Even if it kills him. Which, considering the erratic hammering of his heart and rapid rising of his stress levels, might be sooner rather than later.

The embarrassment is somewhat dampened by a refusal to meet her eye as he slowly removes protective padding, the sheaths of his swords, the belts around his waist and the samurai garb across his chest. Finally, the soft cloth of his mask follows, and he lets it fall to the ground with the rest.

He can’t—or won’t; he isn’t quite sure which right now—meet her gaze. The absence of his clothes, especially the mask he has worn since childhood, leaves him feeling decidedly naked. She shouldn’t have to see him like this. She is far too beautiful and shouldn’t be subjected to the mutated horror of his body.

Without warning, without having heard her approach, she’s standing in front of him. Her dark blue eyes trace slowly over his face before one hand cups his jaw, and he barely contains a responsive gasp. Oh. Oh God. Her skin, her warmth, the smooth silken texture of fingers and palm against his cold, rough, so very non-human flesh. He can’t help but tilt into her touch, subconsciously nuzzling the skin there. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.

“Raw,” she murmurs, keeping the one hand in place while the other runs a slow path over one shoulder, down the exposed line of his chest, and finally returns to his upper arm. “Raw and crude. Unrefined, yet with so much color. Like an emerald.”

He barely has time to contemplate, let alone absorb her words when she lifts a blue gaze to him and a smile curves pink lips. “You are a masterpiece, Leonardo. A living, breathing gem. A piece of art from Nature’s canvas.”

A tightly-held breath escapes in a rush, and a thousand thoughts race unchecked through his mind. He wants to touch her. He wants to hold her. He wants to clutch her to his body and whisper in her ear and thank her for the heart which was so willing to see something beautiful in him, to want to be close to him, to want to _touch_ him…

“Celine,” he prays, curling one hand around hers and pressing it against his cheek. The sheer size of his palm dwarfs hers, every inch covered and captured, and she never pulls away. Instead, her smile grows tender as she considers him.

“Are you afraid of me?” she whispers, fingertips tracing a path to his eye and finding his scar.

“I’m terrified of you.” He answers, shaking violently. “I almost wish you would turn me away. Be disgusted and horrified. I need it to remind me of what I am to you.”

“What you are to me is a friend.” She speaks gently, but insistently, while her fingers continue exploring him. “A companion and confidant. Someone who isn’t afraid of me, or has some warped interest in me, because of who my father is to this city. You just want to know _me_. Do you not realize how precious a gift that is?”

Precious. Beautiful. A masterpiece. Every word she’s used to describe him feels like a wave of warm sun, spreading heat throughout every inch until he’s no longer shaking but basking in her words and her closeness. If there’s ever been another time he felt like this, he doesn’t want to remember.

His silence, and the blissful expression on his face, must be answer enough, because she smiles and slips her captured hand further into his. “Come on,” she tugs him to the couch. “The night is young, and it’s too beautiful to waste.”

They spend the evening on that couch. She settles close to him and reads aloud from “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. He dares to set a hand on her shoulder, which she promptly nuzzles against. At some point, his cheek comes to rest on her crown, and he finds he likes the smell of her hair. Vanilla and honey. She tells him it’s her shampoo before continuing on to the poem about a Walrus and a Carpenter. He likes the way she changes her voice for each character. Afterwards, she shyly explains it was the way her father read it to her. He likes it even more.

By the time she finishes the book, the hand on her shoulder has dropped to her waist, and she’s curled tightly against him. Her head is nestled into his shoulder, and a few curls tickle the underside of his jaw.

He doesn’t go home again tonight. She’s fallen asleep in his arms and there is no part of him that wants to move. At some point, he falls asleep too.

He wakes up to the sun peeking through drawn curtains and the smell of cooking in her kitchen. He turns in place, looking over the couch to find her freshly-showered, wet hair in a braid, dressed in cotton pants and an overlarge sweater. He finds he likes how the sweater hangs loose on her shoulders, exposing just the right amount of skin to stay modest but still make him stare.

“Morning,” she calls. Turning around and finding him staring makes a smile into a smirk, “See something you like?”

It’s only about fifteen minutes later than he stops blushing.


	3. Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo and Donatello chat about secrets; the night of Celine's art gala takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter for "Canvas". This is also the chapter that earns the "Teen and Up" rating for suggestive content. Nothing too graphic, I promise.

“So who is it?”

He pauses mid-stretch, the awkward angle making it difficult to look at his brother. Trying for a nonchalant tone, he refocuses on balancing. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Donnie.”

“Nice try, Leo.” Donatello returns, peering at his laptop. Though he doesn’t look up, the dry tone makes it clear he isn’t focused on the screen. “You sneak out without a word to any of us, stay out all night, and sometimes don’t even come back home. You’re meeting someone.”

“Maybe I’m just that good at sneaking back in.”

“Spoken to the one who built and has full access to our security system.”

Damn. Donatello has him there. Sighing heavily, he simply returns to the old excuse, “I’m patrolling. Someone has to take it seriously.”

“And where are you spending the day?”

What is this, an interrogation? He expects this from Sensei or Raphael, not mild-mannered Donatello. “I have a place. Abandoned. No one ever goes exploring there.” It isn’t the truth, but it isn’t completely dishonest. Celine never has visitors, and as far as he’s been able to tell, she doesn’t have much in the way of neighbors.

“Hmm.”

He looks over at Donatello, but now the younger brother is staring thoughtfully at the screen, more intently than before. He decides to take advantage of the distraction with all haste. “Working on our city surveillance system?”

Donatello nods mutely, and he pushes it even further. “Is April coming by tonight?” he smiles slightly, “I mean, this thing _is_ your baby. Both of you.”

Donatello clears his throat quietly. “Yeah. Around ten. Provided Vern doesn’t keep— _need_ her. Again.”

He doesn’t miss the rapid change of words mid-sentence. He also doesn’t miss the tiny droplet of bitterness riding the end of the words. He sympathizes. He’ll never say it out loud, but he does. He knows the feeling too well. Celine’s isolated lifestyle keeps jealous uncertainty at a minimum, but it’s always there with the dreaded “What if?” lingering at the back of his mind.

But poor Donnie. For him, it isn’t an illogical fantasy. It’s a very real possibility and it only becomes more possible with each passing day.

“Ever thought about just telling her?” he asks, lowering himself back to the floor. He pushed it too far tonight; his muscles are not going to be appreciative tomorrow.

“Good idea, Leo,” the response is dry and dripping with sarcasm, “and while I’m at it, I’ll offer all my worldly possessions and a home above round and a perfectly normal life. None of which I can give her.”

“I didn’t tell you to propose to her.” He retorts, stretching carefully. “I told you to be honest with her so she doesn’t keep wondering why you stare at Vern like you want to take your bo staff to his head.”

Donatello sighs and looks up, pushing his glasses up with skepticism written across his face. “Has honesty like that ever worked for _you_?”

He hides a small smile and shrugs idly. “You’d be surprised.”

***

“Wants to take his staff to the man’s head?” Celine smirks, “Are you sure that’s the only place he’d like to put it?”

“I rather not think about the other places.” He answers, devouring another slice of pizza with relish. “I’d like to think Donnie’s too civilized for that.”

“Never underestimate the jealous heart.” Celine advises, delicately sipping her tea, “It turns innocent maidens into bloodthirsty harpies and cultured gentlemen into thieves, liars, and scoundrels.”

“Speaking from personal experiences?”

“Firsthand witness accounts.” She replies primly, but her eyes are dancing with mischief. “I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Sounds scandalous.” He smirks, settling back on his knees. Her carpet is delightfully soft against the skin, and the first in the hearth is warm on his back. Summer will be here soon, and the time for fireplaces will soon be gone. For now, he’ll enjoy the comfort of heat radiating against his skin. It’s a luxury not available underground, even with Donnie’s efforts on the ventilation system. He’d entertained the thought of a fireplace down in the lair, but then he remembered the danger of having Mikey near an open flame.

“Very,” she nods solemnly, “I’ll spare the details for your tender sensibilities.”

His smirk only grows, and he reaches out with great speed to grab her by the waist and pull her from the couch. “How gracious of you, Miss West.”

Now she smirks, draping herself over his lap, kicking one leg over the other. “I believe I told you something about calling me that, Leonardo.”

His hand instinctively goes to her waist, steadying her balance. “Celine,” he murmurs, setting his other hand on her lower back. Her smirk settles into a smile and one arm loops around his shoulders.

“Better.” She nods slowly; the hand on his opposing shoulder runs lazily across his shell. Her head rests against his, nuzzling lightly. “Don’t forget it.”

“Never,” he whispers, the hand on her back rubbing gently through the cloth. The physical intimacy is new; boundaries are still being established, but for now it is still a comfortable proximity between them. Keeping her close, having her touch him without disgust or revulsion, feeling her smile against his temple is a bliss he previously didn’t think existed. He won’t push for more. As with so many other things in their relationship, he’ll just let things run at their own pace.

***

She stands back from her canvases, hands on hips as she gives each one a critical glare.

“Do you always do this before a show?” he asks, watching her from the window sill with amusement. “I don’t think glaring at them will make improvements.”

“I like to put the fear of God in them.” Celine answers, smirking slightly, “Besides, this is a big show. International buyers will be there. I can’t afford to have these be anything less than perfect.”

“Celine,” he chastises lightly, sliding off the sill to stand behind her, “they’re an extension of their creator.” His hands cup her shoulders, engulfing them beneath his palms, “Of course they’re perfect.”

“And to think your brothers say you can’t be charming.” She smiles, resting back against him. After a minute, she takes his hands and wraps both arms around her waist. Draped around her like this, he feels like a large, reptilian coat. He likes the idea. He especially likes the warm softness of her against him, and the way he can smell her hair when they’re close like this.

“So,” she says, “which one is your favorite?”

He studies each one carefully, examining the colors and images, the details and overlapping themes. Each one is a story in and of itself, and each one is beautiful. But as for his _favorite_ …

He won’t pretend to know much about art. He knows only what has been learned through her. But he does know each one reflects her beauty and perfection, her tender heart and the gentle way she views the world, and that is all he needs to know.

He finally settles on the last canvas: a stunning vision of New York bathed in sunlight. Buildings are erected in black, edges blurred against the piercing gold flooding the remaining canvas. It reminds him of the many times they have watched a sunrise together. Knowing she painted it with him at her side, a few short weeks ago, only adds to his love for the piece.

She follows his gaze and smiles. “That one?”

He nods, resting his chin atop her curls. “It feels like we painted it together.” He murmurs, smiling slightly, “Though you were more involved than I.”

“You kept me company.” Celine points out. “And I seem to remember you offered your opinion once or twice.”

The memory, albeit a brief and seemingly insignificant one, holds a special place in his heart. It is just one of many he has stored away since this all started. He hopes to store even more.

Abruptly, she slips out of his hold and retrieves the canvas. “I think,” she says, lifting it up and turning around to face him, “this one isn’t for sale.”

“Why not?” he frowns. Surely she isn’t ashamed of it?

Her smile doesn’t fade as she extends it to him. “Because it’s yours.”

A long moment passes before his brain processes the words and he remembers to take it. “Celine…” his hands shake as they slip around the canvas edges.

She sets a warm hand to his face. “I never repaid you.” Two fingers tap the glass pendant around her throat. “Besides, this piece has memories attached. Precious moments only you and I can appreciate. My other pieces don’t have those.”

Her fingers curl around his knuckles, voice lowering. “This one does.” Celine murmurs. “It’s ours.”

Sneaking it in without notice was a bit of a challenge, especially with the brothers gathered in the living room. His one saving grace was the television’s volume level, one which is normally reserved for movie theater surround sound. Come morning, he’ll be having a word with them about it. The last thing they need is for their new home to be discovered because people across town can hear the television set blaring out a wrestling match or football game. 

He mounts the painting on the wall directly beside his bed. It’s rather silly, he supposes, for the placement to have been determined by how quickly he can set eyes on it upon waking up in the morning. But it’s okay. At least he knows he’ll be waking up with a smile on his face.

***

He wasn’t sure what to expect when arriving at her window tonight. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

Celine stands at her mirror, carefully smoothing her curls back with precision. Blue silk is wrapped around her delicate form, clutching possessively at the waist and hips before blossoming out around the legs with a small train. Her back and shoulders are covered with a white wrap, and as she turns to face him, he catches sight of a neckline baring her collarbone and just the slightest glimpse of her chest.

She smirks slightly, strolling over and slipping a hand beneath his jaw and guiding it back up to close with an audible _click_. “I take it you like the dress?”

He nods mutely, not trusting his voice. Celine’s smirk broadens. “I appreciate the compliment, Leonardo. You know how to make a girl feel good.”

He tries to sound intelligent, like he knows how to speak or at least string words together. All he manages to say, voice barely above a whisper, is, “You’re beautiful.”

Her smirk softens and her hand runs up to idly finger his scar. He bites back a moan; the thing is faded and old and shouldn’t be so sensitive, but it is. Or maybe it’s sensitive because she’s touching it. Probably.

“Wait up for me?” she asks.

“All night,” he promises, turning to brush his mouth over her wrist. He misses the sudden flash in her eyes; when he looks back at her, it’s gone.

“I won’t be gone long.” She reassures him. “You know I hate these social things.”

Yes, he knows, and it’s the only reason he doesn’t follow her tonight and haunt the rooftops in her wake. He’s thought about doing it more than once, and for that he knows the evening will be spent in deep, controlled meditation.

And then, thoughts of meditation and a quiet night at home—it’s almost strange to acknowledge how this place has become “home” to him—are derailed because her lips are pressed to his and he can’t really process anything except her warmth and her closeness. Her lips are soft and smooth and she’s so _close_ …

Vaguely, he remembers he should be kissing her back.

Celine pulls away with a smile. “Stay out of trouble,” she winks, “I’ll be back.”

She leaves, and he drops to the floor with a graceless _thud_.

She kissed him. She _kissed_ him. Why…how did… _why would…?_

He slowly tilts backwards, the weight of his shell bringing him against the wall with an equally clumsy but less disruptive noise. The window is cracked, allowing a pleasant breeze. He needs that fresh air and gulps it down in hungry breaths. Finally, he rests his head against the sill. And he thinks. Actually, he panics.

His mouth tingles, the skin memorizing the shape of her pink lips; the fit of them against his; the bare hint of mint tasted in her gloss. He remembers with great shame how he’d stood there, selfishly receiving and giving nothing back. He remembers she should have been frustrated at his lacking response and instead smiled. Smiled at him.

He wants to be kissed again. He wants to be bold enough to _kiss her_ this time. Forget consequences and fears and insecurities and the hated laws of nature which separate them. He wants to throw himself headfirst down the spiraling vortex of emotion which has been inviting them both from the beginning.

He isn’t and will never be normal. But couldn’t he pretend? Just for one night?

It’s an absurd notion, and he should be better than this. He is the eldest. The firstborn. The leader. He is the one in control. Composed and collected and always with a plan. He isn’t—shouldn’t be—the dreamer. The wisher. The one yearning for impossible things.

But then…he once thought having her in his life and being a part of hers was impossible. Now, this being a very real thing between them…he isn’t so sure about _impossible_.

He’s still sitting on the floor when she comes home, two hours later. The room is dark, but he lives in shadows. He can see her silhouette, highlighted briefly by the hall lights before she shuts the door. She must be accustomed to darkness too, because he sees her move easily to the fireplace and strike it to life. The warm lights dance lazily across the floor, reaching him after a short time.

She straightens and looks at him. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“All night.”

Her eyebrow lifts. She must have picked up on his distant tone. “What’s wrong?”

He can be intellectual about this. Mature. Collected and cool-headed. He always has a plan.

“Why did you kiss me?” It’s a rushed, garbled mess of words, barely strung together into intelligible speech. He didn’t look at her, and he still can’t. Instead, he stares at the floor.

Yeah. All part of a plan. Good God, he’s an idiot.

Before he can try and correct himself, she’s kneeling before him, one hand delicately on his face. Her skirt pools around her legs and feet, and his hand twitches with the urge to touch the silk. To trace the shape of her leg and find her hip beneath the folds of her dress.

He’s so engrossed in the fantasy that he almost misses the answer. “Because I wanted to.”

Her mouth abruptly moves to his ear, the warmth of her closeness and her breath against his neck coupling with the hand cupping his jaw and stroking lightly. It’s all a sudden rush of sensation that does nothing for his attempts at self-control. The words she breathes against his ear are the final breaking blow.

“And if you don’t stop me in the next five seconds, I’m going to do it again.”

He can’t do it. Can’t keep control, pretend he doesn’t want this—her—all of her. He does. He wants. He _needs_ her.

Both hands grasp her shoulders, anchoring her in place for a moment as he presses his mouth to her neck. Inhales slowly, deeply. She isn’t wearing perfume. The natural scent of her skin, the one he’s become exceptionally familiar with, is right there. Vanilla, like cake. He wants to devour her.

He keeps his mouth there, dragging along the slope of her neck, the soft junction of her collarbone, across the shoulder. She is warm and he is cold. She is soft and smooth; he is rough and scaled. The calloused texture of his hand could hurt her. Chafe her skin. He doesn’t want to damage her, but if he lets her go it might kill him.

Her fingers drag along his jaw. “Leonardo,” she sounds breathless, and he can’t help but look up at her. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. “Kiss me.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, his rational mind protesting his lack of experience, of knowledge. The rest of him, heavily influenced by pure emotion, could care less.

It’s an awkward gesture, talentless. There are undeniable physical differences between them. The shape of his mouth and hers are like mismatched pieces of a puzzle. Never meant to work together or be joined as one. He knows a brief spurt of shame, and then her hands curl around the back of his neck. Pulling him closer. Deeper into the kiss. He quickly forgets anything else, only the need for more.

One hand slides along her leg, tracing the smooth arch of her calf, the slope of her thigh, and finally the curved shape of her hip. Cool silk ripples with his touch. Her skin is warm beneath the cloth, and he wants to touch bare flesh. The thought sends a rush of heat licking his veins.

“Celine,” he is breathless when they finally part. He wants to kiss her again. He wants to kiss her everywhere.

She pressed her forehead to his. Then her lips brush his scar. He shivers. Her hands drag firmly down his arms, feeling the muscles beneath each finger. Soft, then possessive. He trembles at the unspoken message: _Mine_.

“Leonardo,” her lips curve into a lazy smile; fingertips trail down to his wrists and curl around the thick form of his joints and muscles. She brushes kisses along his face, eventually finding her way back to his mouth. Another kiss follows. Another. Another. His hands run unchecked up her back, along her sides and finally into her hair. Soft curls of silk slide between his fingers. He tangles himself in the strands. A moment later, he breaks away from her lips and buries his face in the soft haze of pale blonde. Inhales deeply. Vanilla and honey.

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes, drinking her in. “So beautiful.”

She shifts just slightly in his arms, hands reaching behind and fumbling with something. Seconds later, he understands as the dress opens and slips from her frame. In a cooler moment, he’ll be a little embarrassed at how quickly he fights to expose her. Right now, he doesn’t care. At all. He drags the cloth away, desperate to find bare skin. To touch the fire beneath her skin. To be burned and consumed.

She is still the flame and he will always be the moth. He will always seek her fire if only to lose himself in her.

He groans aloud as her hands return the favor. Stripping him of protective layers and all barriers between her and his body. It amazes him to watch her, to see the hunger in her eyes. He is the farthest thing from human. Normal. But she is with _him_. She wants _him_. No one else. Just him. The mere thought is almost too much to comprehend.

“My love,” Celine breathes into his neck, letting him continue exposing and exploring her body. “My precious love.” She kisses him there. Once. Twice. Three times.

Finally, she is completely bare and in his arms. Every inch of pale skin open to his seeking touch. He touches without shame, learning every detail. A delicate kiss to her shoulder, and then he draws back to meet her gaze.

“Make me your canvas, Celine.” He dares, finally speaking the one thought that has haunted every waking thought since he first saw her bring beauty to an empty slate. “Make me _yours_.”

This time there is no missing the gleam in her eyes. A tremor runs through him while hunger fuels an already-burning need. Her hands smooth over both shoulders as she slips into his lap. Her lips are lifted in a coy smirk. “Right here?” she asks. “On the floor?”

“I’m not really inclined to move.” He answers, pleased he can actually still think semi-coherently. To emphasize the point, he shifts his hips rather pointedly. Boldly. She sighs and tightens her grip on his upper arms. “Besides,” he adds, kissing below the jaw, “I’ll break your bed.”

It’s supposed to be an embarrassing confession, but the smirk she gives only makes him burn. And not from shame. “Best reason to buy a new bed I can think of.” She purrs, pressing closer to him. She kisses him again. Both hands run down his front, striking several nerves. He didn’t know he was even sensitive there.

She kisses a heated path up his neck, pausing against at his ear. “I want you in my bed.” Her voice is low and doesn’t allow much for further protests. “If we do break it, then you can just pay me back the cost.”

“Do you take check or cash?” he mumbles, tilting his head to kiss her collarbone. In one fluid movement, he stands, keeping her tight in his arms, and makes a quick path towards her bedroom.

It’s a great relief to still carry on with her, exchanging the humorous banter even like this. It takes away the awkwardness, the uncertainty. She, once again, makes him forget their differences. She doesn’t have expectations or demands. Only the desire to keep him close. His head is spinning with sheer bliss.

She laughs at his words, leaning her head back for his mouth. “Cash.” The answer is still tinged with her smile. “You know how unreliable checks are.”

He smiles. Grins, actually. His knees hit the edge of her mattress and they tumble forward together. Her hands remain on his shoulders, dragging him closer. His hands relocate to the bed covers, bracing above her.

For a moment, he simply looks into her eyes and she looks back at him. Unwavering. Without question. Blue eyes pierce him, beneath flesh and bone, down to his soul. He feels branded. Marked by her.

Loved by her.

It suddenly occurs to him how vulnerable he is. Exposed. Stripped emotionally and physically. He can’t be in control with her. More so, he can be weak and uncertain. At ease and comfortable. He can be anything and nothing all at once. He can be safe with her.

His arms curl around her, bringing her tight to his chest. He’s fairly certain she can feel the erratic beat of his heart. At some point, he pulls away from her lips with a shuddering breath. He doesn’t remember when he started kissing her.

“I love you.” The words fall out before he thinks to stop them. For a moment, he can’t and doesn’t breathe. He can only stare and pray he hasn’t—somehow, some terrible way—destroyed this.

And then she smiles. Smiles and curls both hands around his cheeks. “I know.”

Slowly, she shifts beneath him, tucking closer with that beautiful smile in place. Her fingers splay across his face, touching every available inch. Her warmth is so close, very close, and he barely restrains a groan as one leg tangles with his. Good God. She’s smooth. And soft. She’s perfect.

The hold she has on his face serves as an anchor; she pulls him closer and brushes her lips over his. “Now, love me.”

***

He first becomes aware of the bed sheets on his shell. Then the familiar scent of vanilla all around him. And then a warm, soft weight draped across his front. And curls trailing across his shoulders. And hands trailing down his sides and a mouth kissing his neck and—Oh God. Sensitive there.

“Morning,” Celine’s voice is like honey in his ears, and she doesn’t stop touching him. She hits another patch of nerves, and he isn’t quick enough to bite back a grown. It’s definitely not a pained sound. Pain is the last thing on his mind right now.

“Woman,” he manages, one hand resting on her lower back, “you’re trying to kill me.”

“I’ll revive you.” He feels the smirk against his neck. “Over…and over…and over…”

“ _Celine_ ,” he moans quietly, shifting beneath her. She’s still kissing his neck and if she doesn’t stop in the next ten seconds he will not be held responsible for his actions.

She pulls back enough that he can see the smirk on her lips. “Somewhere else you need to be?”

He stares at her for a minute. Then wraps both arms around her and rolls over. Blue eyes sparkle with her laughter and her smile. He kisses that smile. He intends to kiss it many, many times.

**Author's Note:**

> The next piece in my TMNT 2014 series. Obviously, this one features a OFC; a young lady I had toyed with early in my TMNT fandom days, now revamped and making a debut. I'm excited to share her with you all. 
> 
> I should also point out I'm taking some liberties with little details. For example, Leo's swords. In the 2k3 cartoon series, we saw him rebuilding his katanas after losing them in a fight with the Shredder; I personally enjoyed the idea of the brothers designing their weapons, to make each one their own. That's what I'm running with here. It probably wouldn't exist in the real world, but that's why we can take creative license with some things.


End file.
